Untitled for now
by venustus99
Summary: This story uses Glee characters and their experiences, but is very AU, set a small liberal arts college.  It is structured very differently than anything else I have written.  Feedback is always welcomed and much appreciated!
1. Chapter 1

It was just a regular notebook. The kind with the black and white cardboard cover that you can buy for less than a dollar. And it was common to see things like that littering surfaces of the library when tired and forgetful students left them behind. This notebook, however, was carefully tucked under the cushion of an overstuffed leather chair in one of the most secluded and private areas of the library.

It was Noah's favorite spot for solitude when the university's library got crazy with the sudden influx of college kids trying to learn how to study as midterms quickly approached. You had to take two elevators and weave your way through the stacks of old, musty manuscripts to find the tiny area surrounded by windows with just two leather chairs and small table. He sat for a while with his book open on his lap, barely pretending to keep his focus on the Music of the World: pre 1600. And he wouldn't have even noticed the notebook if he hadn't shifted in his seat, an old injury from his high school days revisiting him, and heard the sound of paper crinkling. Reaching down, he pulled the notebook out from under his seat with the intention of throwing it on the table so the owner could find it again and he could get back to instruments of ancient China. But it didn't feel right in his hands, it felt heavier than it should, thicker, less uniform. Curiosity got the best of him and he flipped it open to the first page.

It was an intricate collage of photographs, sections of designs drawn in pen, tiny twisted pieces of fabric. None of the pieces individually really meant much to him, but it was the way they were put together that made him think, _This is what lives in your heart. None of the pieces mean anything apart from the whole. _ He almost put the book down, realizing he was basically reading someone's personal journal until he noticed the small image nearly hidden in the corner of the page. It was a dog. But not any dog, one that looked just like the Blue Heeler he grew up loving. That was enough to make him turn the page.

Each page was different than the last. There was the page covered in post-it notes containing bits of a story – whether it was made up or her life he had no idea – that were carefully taped into the book. He imagined briefly if she had brightly color pads stashed random places all over her apartment in case an idea struck that was too fleeting to run for her journal. There was an entry with a recipe for some kind of spiced bread neatly written in small block letters, topped by the much more hastily written note "Call mom, something doesn't taste right." He leaned in to sniff those pages and was enveloped by the scent of cinnamon. A spread of pages painted with watercolor images of a sunset, starting in bright oranges and fuchsias and settling into deep purple. There too he found the familiar handwriting of her notes to herself. "Watercolors are too cheerful for the sadness of a sunset."

The last filled pages were written on in ink still new enough to smudge. The note scribbled at the top read, "Maybe if I write this in French, it can count as studying for my French midterm, right?" There was a block of text, whether it was a story or a journal entry, or a letter he couldn't tell. Words were crossed out, replaced by better choices, or ones in the right tense. It was hard to read the story when you don't know the language. The story he did read here was the story of it being written. Curled up on the leather chair with her feet up under her. Her mind working ten times faster than her hand could process how to write her words in the other language. He could see that sometimes she saw her mistake right away and fixed it, sometimes it was later on a re-read that she spied the mistake and had to jam the new words in. Why the idea was so captivating was a mystery to him. Every story has the story it tells and the story of how it came to be.

Before he knew what he was doing, Noah had ripped a page from his notebook of blank sheet music and taped it into the notebook on the next open page. There had been a melody knocking around in his brain since he opened the first page and he knew if he didn't get it out and on paper, it wouldn't let him eat or sleep or function. Like he did quite often when writing music, he closed his eyes tightly and let his fingers move as if he were playing the imaginary piano. His brain hummed with the notes until they were exactly as they should be and he released them onto the blank staffs waiting to be filled. No harmonies, no words, just a simple melody. Underneath the torn edge of the sheet music he wrote quickly, "Forgive me for intruding," before stuffing the notebook back under the cushion he found it and gathering his things and making a hasty exit. Somehow he knew if he spent any more time with the journal in his hands he would have never had the courage to leave it.

* * *

><p>For the next several days, Noah did everything in his power to forget about the stupid notebook. A term he had adopted in a sad, sad attempt to disconnect from the power he felt holding it. Sitting behind a piano in a practice room in the early hours of the morning, he could have kicked himself a thousand times for not copying down that melody before leaving it for some stranger. For the 3rd straight hour he pounded out notes on the piano that came just close enough to the bits of melody to make him absolutely insane.<p>

Noah spent the week trudging through classes and meetings and hours in practice rooms. He got as caught up as his friends and classmates in the tension of this time of year. It was a week to the day when he found himself making the same familiar trek through the musty old stacks without a thought of the girl with the notebook. Instead he was mired in the worries of research papers, on-demand performances, and the impending train ride home to the warm arms of another awkward family holiday. Noah found himself mumbling the words that used to run through his brain when he was younger, "Maybe this year is the year mom stays sober and doesn't tell the story of how dad left us on Thanksgiving and then cries till she throws up in the bathroom."

He threw himself his the chair in a huff with his hands in his head. _Why was it such a horrible thing to not want to see his family on holidays?_ he wondered to himself when he felt the corner of the book against the back of his thigh. Noah let out a discontented noise with the sad realization that she never came back for it. _What did you want to happen anyway? _ Well, at least he could take the notebook home now and he could have his melody back. He sighed and flipped the pages open again, but his hand stopped cold when he saw that his music wasn't the last page filled any longer.

There were new pages of notes. A collage of pieces of fabric that looked like a quilt. Another essay in French. A series of post-it notes including a grocery list and he shook his head in judgment of the no-pulp orange juice. A sketch of the constellations. And there on the last page – a letter.

_Stranger,_

_Thank you for finding my brain here shoved into the cracks, where it normally resides. Metaphorically speaking, of course. Christ, why do I sound like a jerk even in my own journal? Dear music-leaving stranger who will never see this note, I am a half-crazy woman who writes like a pretentious ass even in her own journal._

_Guess I can say what I want, now that I have the freedom of knowing you won't see this. I never wished I could play some kind of musical instrument more than when I saw those notes on the page. But music was never my talent. Well, that's sort of a lie. I rocked out in high school show choir for a little while, but my skills always remained elsewhere. _

_I wonder how you found my corner of the library. This is the old original section of the building, you know? That is why it smells like my grandma's desk drawers here. But you stumbled upon my quiet, stinky haven and found my forgetfulness, probably right under your ass. I'm not lying when I say this thing is like my brain. And like my brain, I forget it in a lot of stupid places. _

_Anyway, stranger who will never read this, I thought I would leave you my brain again – on purpose this time. Happy Tuesday. _

_LZ_


	2. Chapter 2

Noah reread the note to him probably 10 times before he grabbed his canvas messenger bag to see what kind of things he had with him. Sadly he carried no blank staff paper today, nothing visually pleasing to leave her. So he pulled out his favorite pen from his pocket. It was heavy in his hand and left blue ink in dark, heavy strokes.

_Aha, LZ, that is where you are wrong! I have returned to tinker with your brain again. I have to be honest, when I saw it still here I thought you maybe never found it and was worried how you were still breathing walking around with no brain. I assume you're a fan of breathing._

_I feel a little ill prepared to add to your brain today. I am fresh out of sheet music and I don't think I even own any post-it notes. So I will just have to talk. Or write, I guess. When I was walking down here (which, by the way is MY little corner of the library. You got that backwards last time.) I was thinking about Thanksgiving this week. Why exactly does it make me a jerk to not want to go home for Thanksgiving? My mom hates the holiday because ghosts from the past. And my sister is in high school, for her it's an extra day off of school. Maybe I should be more optimistic. "I'm gonna make this the best Thanksgiving ever!" I wonder how pissed my mom would be if I volunteered to cook and made spaghetti._

_I wish I was more clever or had been thinking all week of what to add here, but I didn't. So now I sound exactly how I feel, like a brain dead bore. Midterms have left me virtually comatose. I think I will comment in the rest of your brain, but leave this boring monologue now._

_NP_

Noah flipped back through the previous pages and scribbled notes next to hers in the margins and on the post it notes. _No pulp? Really? Really? It's not breakfast if you don't have to chew your OJ._ He turned to the page with the recipe. _It probably didn't taste right because you spilled all the cinnamon on this book. I bet you even just scraped it right off this page and into the mix, didn't you? _Lastly he turned to the painting of the sunsets. _Sunsets are sad? I thought they were pretty much universally thought of as pretty and romantic. I'd like to hear you theory about why they're sad. _

Noah set for a few minutes with the notebook open on his lap. He really was at a loss for words. He felt so drained and more importantly, he didn't want to seem like an idiot. He shoved his hand in his pocket and felt for it. He always carried this particular black guitar pick in his pocket. Probably 20 times a day he felt for in and turned it around and around between his fingers. He tucked it between the pages where he wrote his letter and added a not at the bottom.

_I may not have anything visually pleasing to leave you, but I traffic in the other senses usually. Hopefully you find this tactilely pleasant. Till next Tuesday._

* * *

><p>It was automatic now. Tuesdays after his piano pedagogy class he went to their hideout. He didn't even have to direct his feet there anymore. He was worried for a brief second if some of the magic would be gone now that he knew for a fact that it would be waiting for him there. He was pleasantly surprised with his psyche that all it did was make him feel more and more like a giddy little boy the closer and closer he got to the time. It was a personal fault Noah would claim without hesitation because there was no avoiding it – in almost all aspects of his life he was addicted to the chase. It was that way for him with sports and hobbies – once he was deemed "good" he was officially bored. With his education – once he was admitted to the selective Music Ed program at his college he was already starting to look at more challenging grad schools. And it was especially true with women. People thought it was a sex thing. A "use em and lose em" thing. That wasn't his intention even if that was the result. He found all the women he dated to be attractive, fascinating, intoxicating creatures. But the excitement of the chase was always a stronger pull than his connection with them. The closest he came to finding his match was a beautiful, soulful girl from his high school choir who all but told him she would date him for his standing in the school and for no other reason. His determination to make her see more than that in him had the unintended consequence of forcing him the closest to love he had ever been. Had it not been for a floppy-haired blonde with a Southern drawl and better abs than him and her speech to him about invisible tethers, he probably would still be wrapped up with her.<p>

He plucked the book from between the cushions and turned directly to the last page to read her letter first.

_NP, I just knew you were a smart man. Perceptive too. I actually LOVE breathing. It's like, totally my favorite past time. I should list that in my profile. "Enjoys long walks in the woods (not the beach, because that's cliché as hell and there's nothing awesome like bears at the beach), cute puppies, and breathing." I think that would get me tons of awesome dates._

_So I can't say that I relate to not wanting to go home for holidays. I kind of had the Norman Rockewell childhood. I mean, there were the shitty parts, but everyone has those. My parents are awesome and funny. My sisters are great when I only have to be around them for a couple days at a time. So I can't offer much in the way of "I've been there," but this was my thought. (Not that it helps you now, which kind of makes me an asshole, but I digress) Make new memories. Who says Thanksgiving has to be dried our turkey and football on TV? _

_I have to admit to something here. And this will probably make me seem like a loon. Except wait, if you can't already tell I am a loon, then maybe you aren't as smart as I thought, NP. I was supposed to make a side for our Thanksgiving dinner and I totally made a huge bowl of spaghetti. It made me laugh the whole time I was making it and I got some craaaazy looks from my family. But it was kind of fun. Thanks for the suggestion. _

_LZ_

_PS About your comments. 1) Yes pulp free! If I wanted to chew I would eat a damn orange whole. 2) Shut up, it was only half the cinnamon and it was perfectly usable still. 3) I'll explain when I can find the words._

_PPS Thanks for the pick. I find it very pleasant to touch, you were right. _

Noah started to flip back through her new additions to see what was there when a pack of hot pink post-it notes fell out into his lap. She had written on the top on in heavy black marker. _How in the hell do you not own post-it notes? How do you organize your life? Use these. _ He shook his head at the hot pink because he just knew somehow that the color choice was completely intentional.

The first page she had added was a page of doodles. She must have had the journal in her lap as she sat with her family watching football. There were doodles of the ball itself. A set of uprights with a score listed underneath. A blue #18 with a silly cartoonish heart drawn around it. He laughed out loud with a boom when he saw the red thumbprint sized smudge in the corner of the page with an arrow and the note _Oops, spaghetti! _A sticky note with names and what appeared to be gift ideas next to each one. Mom, Dad, Lyd, Ang, Steph. A heavy vertical line was followed by the names Kurt, Santana, and Steven with a question mark. All had ideas next to them and a comment. _Kurt – Batman and Robin action figures. Vintage Toy Store?_ _Santana – Brass knuckles. Unless it will get me arrested. _ But the section next to the name Steven was blank. His eyebrow quirked but he kept turning the pages.


End file.
